


Running You With Red

by winteratdusk



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Blood, Blood Loss, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: The First Avenger, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Whump, Whumptober 2020, World War II, field medicine, hypovolemic shock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:22:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27126461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winteratdusk/pseuds/winteratdusk
Summary: Bucky's hurt pretty badly while on a mission with Steve during the war. They're still behind enemy lines and taking fire, but Steve is utterly determined to get Bucky through the ordeal alive.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 5
Kudos: 86
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Running You With Red

**Author's Note:**

> written for whumptober prompt "field medicine"  
> warnings for blood, canon-typical violence, graphic depictions of injury, and a brief mention of needles
> 
> (also I feel like this goes without saying but I'm pretty sure everything Steve does here is not medically advisable so, like, please don't try this at home lol)

When the shot sailed over Steve’s head, so far away that it was like the HYDRA sniper was _trying_ to miss him, Steve didn’t think anything of it. His eyes tracked the bullet’s trajectory back to the source, enhanced vision quickly identifying the outline of a body perched in one of the treetops lining the forest path on which Steve was lying in wait to intercept a HYDRA transport. A quick, well-practiced fling of his shield neutralized the threat, sending the sniper hurtling down to the snowy ground and Steve’s shield boomeranging back to his side. As far as Steve was concerned, the maneuver went off without a hitch and the mission could proceed as planned. 

It wasn’t his favorite kind of mission, wasn’t a guns-blazing, no-holds-barred stampede into a HYDRA base with the Commandos flanking him on either side and Bucky coming up behind him watching his six. This one was a covert operation that had Steve waiting in the cold for what felt like _hours,_ his bold Captain America suit concealed under a long brown jacket to help him blend in with his forest surroundings, a disappointing lack of Commandos stationed near him to take the edge off the waiting because it was supposed to be a “classified mission” and that meant it only required Steve and whatever backup was deemed absolutely necessary. 

This time the necessary backup was just Bucky, hidden somewhere in the treetops behind him. If Steve was honest with himself, the reminder of Bucky’s presence was the one thing that kept him from just calling it and heading back to camp. He hated these long, slow missions, but no matter how tedious the operations got, he was _more_ than happy for the chance to land some blows on HYDRA when it meant getting back at the men who’d been treating Bucky worse than a goddamn lab rat back in Austria.

The low rumble of a distant truck engine drifted through the air, finally disturbing the late-afternoon quiet of the deep forest. Steve slipped behind a thick tree trunk to further conceal himself and reached for his radio. 

“Target approaching. You focus on taking out the driver and I’ll deal with the rest. It’s just you and me, so we’ve gotta be fast. You read me, Sergeant?”

Steve waited with the radio still poised at his mouth, fully expecting the usual quick retort of “roger that, Rogers,” or maybe “sure thing, Stevie.” No matter how many hours of training the military put him through, Bucky always managed to carry out his duties with the least amount of professionalism possible. Just the thought of Bucky’s well-rehearsed snark, somehow still intact after what had now been years of hardship and captivity and war, brought a fondly exasperated smile to Steve’s face. 

That smile dimmed a shade as the seconds ticked past without so much as an acknowledgement from Bucky. The radios were new tech, designed by Howard Stark to be able to communicate over long distances without danger of interference by enemy spies, still largely untested. They must be malfunctioning, Steve reasoned, pressing the call button on the radio to try again. 

“Do you read me, Sergeant Barnes? Thirty seconds to go.”

Still nothing. Steve knew Bucky could hold his own, knew he’d fought his way out of tough situations more times than Steve could count, but the literal radio silence left a bad feeling gnawing at the pit of Steve’s stomach. This wasn’t like Bucky - when things got bad, the first thing he tended to do was check in, always wanting to make sure Steve was okay. Worry rising in his chest, the incoming transport drawing ever closer, Steve hissed out a last-ditch, desperate message. 

“Bucky?”

Even the rumble of the approaching truck couldn’t compete with the silence that seemed to stretch on in the long moments that went by without a response. Steve was beginning to imagine the worst when the radio cracked to life with a burst of static, yielding absolutely nothing coherent but at least letting Steve know that Bucky was _alive_. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“You with me, Buck? We’re about to miss our window here.”

The radio came back on, and this time Steve could pick out a couple of garbled words over the undeniably bad connection.

“Steve, I -- down -- help --”

“Buck?”

“I -- help --”

“ _Shit ,_ ” Steve bit out, glancing over his shoulder at the intended target, now well within range. At this point, any movement would be sure to compromise his position - but Bucky had almost certainly called for _help_ , and in the face of that request everything else was secondary. Steeling himself, Steve cast one last quick look back at the approaching truck before abandoning his covert post and tearing away into the trees. 

Distantly, Steve heard a squeal of brakes as the truck skidded to a halt, heard gunfire spray up behind him as he barreled away from the road and up the gradual slope of the hill that had been at his back. He hoped the shield strapped to his back would take the brunt of the attack, but even if it didn’t, it hardly mattered - no rational thought or latent instinct of self-preservation could compete with the all-consuming need to _get to Bucky, just get to Bucky._ Luckily, he was fast, and it wasn’t long before the sounds of gunfire faded away into the distance, leaving Steve alone with only the sounds of his own heavy footfalls for company. 

Realizing the noise he was making, Steve slowed his pace, quieting his footsteps and straining his enhanced ears as he tried to locate Bucky by sound alone. With his feet nearly still and his breath practically held, Steve could hear something - a soft, low groan, barely distinguishable from the sound of the wind as it rustled the branches of the snow-laden trees. The sound was just a little bit uphill and a little further north, and it was definitely, definitely Bucky. Steve picked up his pace again, running with abandon toward the weak, strangled noise. 

“Bucky?” he called, not caring who else might hear him. “Bucky, are you there? Are you okay?”

No answer. Steve was about to call out again when he heard a wet cough coming from behind the rotting trunk of a felled tree just a few feet away from him. Steve bridged the distance in half a second, vaulting the log and sliding to a halt in the snow on the other side.

“Oh god, Buck!”

Bucky was there, curled up on the forest floor with one of his legs bent a little odd and his hands folded loosely over his stomach. His radio was lying in the snow beside him, and it was immediately evident to Steve why it hadn’t been working. Besides its antenna being bent out of shape like the whole device had been dropped, the radio was drenched, half-submerged in a pool of blood - Bucky’s blood, leaking out from underneath his clasped hands. 

“Jesus _Christ_ , Bucky. What the hell happened?” Steve dropped to his knees at Bucky’s side, head whirling in panic as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing - Bucky, lying crumpled alongside his discarded gun, an array of broken branches, and an _alarming_ amount of blood, like he’d been shot right out of a tree. Steve remembered the bullet he’d let sail past, the bullet he’d thought had been meant for him, and everything started to make a horrible sort of sense.

Bucky swallowed hard, remaining curled on his side but shifting his head to look at Steve. His eyes were wide and glassy, standing out starkly against the pale skin of his face. “Got hit,” he said, his voice wavering like every word was a struggle. “Fell. Think I broke - mighta broke my foot -”

Steve shook his head in disbelief, still gaping open-mouthed at the place where Bucky’s hands were wrapped loosely around his ribs, blood seeping through his fingers and onto the snow beneath him. Bucky may very well have broken his foot, but it was clear that that was the least of their problems.

“Buck, you’re _bleeding_ ,” Steve said, bewildered, his eyes feeling about as wide as Bucky’s looked. This was bad, so bad it was hard to think straight.

“Oh,” Bucky whispered. He coughed again, and Steve could hear the unmistakable sound of fluid crackling in his lungs as he pulled air in. “Yeah. Think I… got hit.”

“You…” _You think?_ “Yeah. You - okay. I’m gonna figure this out, alright? Just hold on. Can you - can you relax a little, let me take a look?”

When Bucky didn’t move, Steve gently took him by the shoulders, rotating him so that he was forced to uncurl and lie flat on his back. Bucky gasped out a surprised noise as he moved, like he was more shocked than hurt, even as blood spurted up and started running faster from what Steve was now sure was a bullet hole in his chest, blown open under the right side of his ribcage. 

“Oh god, oh god, oh _god_ ” Steve heard himself chanting, the sound of his own voice barely registering over the buzz of panic in his ears. He barely caught a glimpse at the wound on Bucky’s abdomen before he found himself leaning forward to press his hands against it in a desperate attempt to slow the bleeding, doing his best to ignore the panicked noise Bucky made when Steve’s hands met his skin. Bucky was breathing shallowly, gurgling a little with every inhale, and his eyes were blown wide, fixed on the treetops above him. Steve couldn’t keep his mind from spiralling back to the last time he’d seen real, full-blown combat - injured men lying in the mud, guts spilling out into their hands, eyes so wide and scared that it seemed like they didn’t even realize how bad they were hurt. The blank look spreading over Bucky’s pallid face was disconcertingly similar to the look Steve had come to associate with cases where the best they could do was administer morphine and start drafting condolence letters. That _couldn’t_ happen to Bucky, Steve told himself. They’d been together their whole _lives_ , it couldn’t just _end_ like this, it wouldn’t be _fair_. 

“Okay,” he said with an authority he didn’t feel, trying to pull himself together. “I’m gonna call for help, gonna find a way to get you out of here. Alright? Buck?”

“Hm?” Bucky panted. The sound was muffled by the saliva Steve could see pooling in his mouth, frothy and, if he wasn’t imagining things, tinged with a hint of red.

“Yeah. Gonna need your help, though. Can you help me keep pressure here?”

Bucky was so still for a moment that Steve nearly fell into a full-on panic, but he was spared when Bucky finally lifted his trembling arms, letting out a low whine as he bent his elbows to let his hands rest lightly on his shuddering abdomen. 

“Good. That’s good. Gonna need a little more help than that though, Buck.” Speaking as calmly as he could through the slight tremor in his voice, Steve removed one of his own hands, bright red and slick with blood, and gathered Bucky’s hands together, manually pressing them against the wound in his side. Bucky cried out when the pressure on the injury suddenly increased, a raw, animal sound that Steve had never before imagined him being capable of making.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said frantically. “I know. I’m so sorry…”

Still pressing down on Bucky’s folded hands with his own left hand, Steve flailed for his radio with his right, struggling to keep the smooth plastic from slipping out of his bloodied grip as he frantically plugged in the channel for the rest of the Commandos back at camp.

“Jones? Morita? Anyone? Come in, come in, do you read me?”

The response was nearly instantaneous, but Steve could have sworn an eternity went by before Morita’s staticky answering voice crackled through the speaker.

“Whoa, Cap, slow down. What’s going on?”

“Buck - I mean, Sergeant Barnes is down. We need evac, now. Right now.”

“...uh, what’s your location, Cap? And what about the mission? Are there still hostiles in the area?”

_Shit._

“I don’t - I don’t know, okay? Doesn’t matter. Just send someone, send someone quick -”

“...Steve?” Bucky spoke up, his small voice almost fully drowned out by the fuzz of static coming through the radio. Steve dropped the device back down to the snow, his full attention immediately drawn back to Bucky. 

“Yeah, Buck?”

“I… hurts.” Bucky swallowed hard, flicking his wide eyes over toward Steve’s face. “Hurts.”

“I know,” Steve whispered, his voice suddenly thick. “I know. Just hold on, okay? You’re doing good. Help’s on the way, alright?”

Lying abandoned in the snow, the radio sputtered back to life. “Look, all due respect, Cap, but I can’t get evac in until I know the area is clear…”

Steve was about to grab the radio and shout back that it didn’t _matter_ , that he’d lost his pursuers _ages_ ago and that Bucky was more important anyway, when, right on cue, he heard a twig snap somewhere just a little too close for comfort. 

“Goddammit,” was all Steve had time to say before bullets started flying. 

Steve growled in frustration, reluctantly pulling his hands away from Bucky’s side and reaching for the shield strapped to his back. He estimated from the intensity of the onslaught that there were probably about three assailants, in all likelihood the HYDRA operatives from the truck they were supposed to be intercepting coming back to finish them off. Ordinarily, Steve could take on three armed men with nothing but his shield, no problem - but with Bucky in such bad shape on the ground behind him, he knew his usual strategies wouldn’t be enough. He wedged the shield down into the snow next to Bucky so that it stood up vertically, hoping to provide him some small measure of protection from the attack, and instead reached for Bucky’s abandoned gun.

The thing was heavy and unwieldy in Steve’s grip, not helped by the fact that his hands were so wet with blood that it was hard to get a finger around the trigger without it slipping off. It occurred to him that he had no idea how to use this type of weapon, hadn’t really been trained for anything specialized besides charging in and hoping for the best - but with Bucky’s life on the line, it hardly mattered. Steve would find a way to fight for him, no matter what. He got enough of a handle on the gun to volley off a spray of returning fire, only vaguely noticing where the bullets were going. His thoughts were still on Bucky, on the horrible pallor of his face, on the veritable river of blood running out of the hole in his chest.

Steve heard a shout in the distance and thought, vaguely, that he might have hit someone, but he didn’t stop, not until one, two - and was that wishful thinking, or a halting third? - pairs of footsteps started retreating through the trees, growing quieter and more distant until all Steve could hear was Bucky’s shallow breath, or maybe just the wind. He dropped the gun and went immediately for the radio. 

“Right, the area’s fucking clear. We’re near Sergeant Barnes’s original coordinates. Just _get here_.”

Steve jammed the radio in his pocket, wrenched his shield out of the snow, and turned his attention back to Bucky.

“God _dammit_ , Bucky!”

In Steve’s absence, Bucky hadn’t kept pressure on his wound. His stained hands were lying limply by his sides in the ever-spreading puddle of blood. He was shaking hard, and, as Steve watched, he arched his back and coughed wetly, sending flecks of blood flying from his open mouth. 

“Shit, shit, okay.” Steve was back on his knees in an instant, grabbing Bucky’s hands and clamping them underneath his own against Bucky’s injured side, though at this point he wasn’t sure how much it was helping. There was just _so much blood,_ so much that it was hard to believe anything he did was going to make a difference. “You’re _bleeding out_ , Buck, you gotta keep pressure here - you gotta -”

Steve knew he was spiralling, knew his temper was getting out of control, but he couldn’t stop, not until he heard Bucky groan softly, his trembling lips working hard to form words.

“Can’t…” he croaked weakly. “‘M sorry Steve, I…”

Bucky looked so scared that the fight instantly drained out of Steve.

“Okay. Okay, no, I’m sorry.” Steve was always quick to anger, quick to fight, more concerned with landing punches than with the bruised knuckles and injured feelings that came after. Those things were Bucky’s areas of expertise, never his. Trying to be gentle the way Bucky always was, the way Bucky now needed him to be, was proving more than a little overwhelming. “Let’s just focus on what we can do now, huh? Just keep pressing down with me, alright?”

No response, just the slight gurgle of Bucky’s shallow breath. Steve looked at Bucky's face, taking in the raw fear in his eyes for half a second before they went hauntingly blank, a fog seeming to settle over them. Bucky’s eyelids fluttered, coming to rest at half-mast as his eyes rolled back into his head, his cold hands going slack under Steve’s.

“Buck? Oh god. Come on, pal, stay with me.”

When Bucky still didn’t respond, shivering so hard Steve could barely keep his hands on him, Steve couldn’t take it anymore. He let go of Bucky’s wound with one hand to gently tap his cheek, accidentally smearing more blood next to the droplets Bucky had already coughed up onto his face. 

“Come on, Bucky, you gotta wake up.”

Still nothing. Bucky’s face was fully grey now, his skin clammy, his eyes stuck half-lidded as his otherwise limp muscles continued to spasm.

“Please, Buck,” Steve begged. He felt tears running down his face, but, with his hands on Bucky, he was powerless to do anything but let them fall. Bucky was his rock, the one who didn’t have to worry about getting sick, the one who always bounced back quick after getting hurt during a fight. Steve wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Bucky as bad off as he was now. Seeing him so weak, so undone, was threatening to undo Steve, too. 

Bucky jerked under Steve’s hands, eyes flying open like he’d just awoken from a dream. His expression was cloudy and distant, but even semi-consciousness was enough to turn Steve’s tears to tears of relief.

“Cold,” Bucky gasped, wheezing as he heaved for breath. “‘S cold.”

“God, I know. I’m sorry.” Steve went to wipe his wet face on his shoulder, expecting to feel the rough fabric of his Captain America suit against his face. He was momentarily surprised when he was instead met with the soft leather of his coat, the sensation blessedly reminding him that he wasn’t _completely_ powerless to help. He drew back from Bucky for a moment, worming his arms out of the sleeves of the long brown coat and quickly working to drape it over Bucky’s shivering body. 

“There you go,” he whispered, carefully tucking the edges under Bucky’s back before resuming pressure on his wound over the top of the coat. Bucky whimpered softly at the pressure, an involuntary little breath that very nearly broke Steve’s heart.

“You’re okay, Bucky. You’re okay.”

Bucky raised his eyes to stare at Steve, looking sleepy and on the verge of losing consciousness again, and suddenly even the few inches of space between the two of them were more than Steve could handle. He gathered Bucky’s head in his hands and scooped it gently into his lap, letting it settle there as Bucky’s eyes started to drift shut. 

“No, no - hey - hey, just look at me,” Steve begged, watching Bucky struggle for consciousness. “I know it’s hard, Buck. I know. Just keep those eyes open, looking right at me. Help’s coming. Won’t be long now.”

Bucky moaned weakly, but he did as Steve asked, forcing his eyes to stay open even as they clearly kept trying to drift shut.

“Doing so good,” Steve whispered. “Gonna have you fixed up before you know it.”

Even as he spoke, Steve was starting to doubt his own words. He briefly looked away from Bucky’s ghostly face, trying to listen for a nearby Jeep engine or a set of footsteps, anything that might signal the approach of help. Nothing - and, with the light growing dimmer as the sun started to sink beneath the horizon, the chances of a quick extraction were growing ever smaller. 

Bucky coughed again, so thick it sounded like he might be retching, and Steve glanced back down at the head cradled in his lap. There was blood trickling out the side of Bucky’s mouth, and beneath it his lips had gone blue. 

“Steve,” Bucky slurred, bloody saliva bubbling up in his mouth as he spoke. 

“Yeah, that’s it, Buck,” Steve said thickly. “I’m here.”

“Steve… ‘m I gonna die?”

Steve hoped his face didn’t betray the way his heart shattered at the mere thought.

“No, Buck,” Steve forced out through a new wave of tears. He lifted one of his hands away from Bucky’s side, wanting more than anything to communicate just _how much_ he loved him, how he’d do _anything_ to make him okay. Powerless, all he could do was smooth the mop of Bucky’s bangs away from his clammy forehead, hoping the gentleness of his touch took some of the edge away from everything else.

“No. I won’t let you. You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

-

Steve was still whispering promises when help finally, finally arrived, long after the sun had set and plunged the forest into darkness. Bucky had fought hard, but eventually he’d slipped into unconsciousness, his skin pale and icy to the touch and the tip of his nose going blue. He was still breathing, but only just, the slight up-and-down motion of his bloodied chest barely perceptible even to Steve and his heightened senses. Steve kept whispering promises as he helped load Bucky onto a stretcher, making sure he stayed tucked under Steve’s coat and that his bent-up leg wasn’t jostled too hard as they hurried him along to a Jeep waiting on the nearby road. He whispered those promises every time the Jeep hit a bump in the road, kept it up all throughout the drive until the camp came into sight, kept it up until Bucky was pulled behind an ominous white curtain in the medical tent for “examination” and Steve could no longer pretend that Bucky might hear him.

-

“Captain Rogers?”

Steve jumped, startled out of his spiral of worry and dread. He’d been pacing back and forth outside the medical tent in the dark almost since they’d arrived back at camp, and he was fully prepared to tell whoever was asking that he was prepared to stay there a while longer. It didn’t matter if it was yet another medic pointedly suggesting that he find something to do elsewhere or Colonel Phillips himself coming to ask him why exactly he’d abandoned his mission. Steve was nothing if not stubborn, and he was planning to stay as close to Bucky as he could for as long as physically possible, no matter who tried to get in the way.

The man speaking to him was indeed a doctor, but he didn’t look quite as exasperated as the other medics Steve had interacted with. His expression was hard to read, and Steve felt his heartbeat pick up its pace as he tried to figure out what the inscrutable look meant.

“Yes, sir?”

“You were with Sergeant Barnes in the field earlier?”

Not trusting his voice, Steve could only nod.

“Well, seeing as you’re still here -” Steve tried and failed to look apologetic “- figured we’d let you know we’re finished operating on him. He’s pretty torn up, but, believe it or not, we’ve got him stable. Can’t begin to explain it, never seen a guy take that kinda internal damage come away from it still breathing, but -”

“Can I see him?” Steve burst out, wholly unable to keep from asking even if he’d tried.

“Well, we’re really not supposed to, but I guess, since Captain America’s asking… just be careful, he’s still not in good shape, he might not - Captain Rogers?”

As soon as he’d been given the barest hint of permission, Steve had brushed past the doctor and through the opening of the tent. Once inside, he was instantly overwhelmed by air reeking of antiseptic and rust. Steve belatedly remembered Bucky’s last experiences with smells like that, how he’d refused to even come near the medical tent when he’d stumbled back dead-eyed from Austria, and Steve’s worry kicked into high gear. He urgently scanned the tent, taking in the two long rows of cots occupied by men in varying degrees of health, none of whom looked like Bucky. Steve desperately turned back to the doctor he’d just left behind, now standing behind him at the entrance of the tent and looking put out.

“Where…”

The doctor didn’t quite roll his eyes, but the reproving look he gave Steve had the same effect. “End of the row on the left.”

Steve hurried down the line of cots, the conditions of the men he passed seemingly worsening as he went, until he finally saw Bucky’s head, pale where it lay pillowed on a folded green blanket. A similar blanket was pulled up to Bucky’s chin, covering up whatever the doctors had done to patch up the hole in his chest. Under the blanket, Steve could see the outline of a bulky bandage covering his leg, straightening out the uncomfortable angle at which his foot had been bent. An IV bag hung next to him, funneling plasma down toward a needle that disappeared under the edge of the ratty blanket. The whole tableau had Steve thinking of HYDRA, of surgical tables with shackles and needles dripping mystery liquid into Bucky’s veins. Fortunately, if Bucky was having the same memories, he was remarkably unconcerned about it. His eyes drifted open as Steve approached, and he blinked dazedly, almost smiling, when Steve dropped to his knees at the side of his cot.

“Hey,” Steve breathed, one of his hands drifting up to cup Bucky’s face as though drawn there by a magnet. Bucky’s skin was still cold to the touch, and Steve found himself wishing he still had his coat, wanting to offer Bucky more warmth than the rough medic-issued blanket could provide. Bucky just closed his eyes and sighed as Steve’s hand met his skin, leaning his head sideways into the touch. Whoever had worked on him must have wiped the blood off his face, as it was clean save a slight sheen of fresh clammy sweat. The cleanliness made Steve’s hands stand out in stark contrast; he’d scrubbed them as best he could as soon as Bucky had been pulled away from him to be treated, but there were still stubborn rings of dried blood around his nail beds that he hadn’t yet been able to remove.

“You should be dead,” Steve blurted out. It wasn’t what he’d meant to say, but with the image of his own bloody hands standing out in his mind he realized how true it was. He’d seen men lose far less blood than Bucky had and still fare far worse. The fact that Bucky was lying here, cold and weak but very much alive, was a mystery as much as it was a miracle.

Bucky’s mouth sprawled into a loose smile, a testament to whatever pain medication the doctors must have given him, though there was something guarded in his eyes that gave Steve pause.

“Ain’t gettin’ rid of me that easy, Rogers,” Bucky mumbled, the words tumbling out easily but still not coming off quite as casually as they might have been intended. The medication keeping Bucky calm and out of acute agony also seemed to be lowering his usual defenses, making it painfully obvious to Steve that there was something Bucky wasn’t telling him. With the image of the HYDRA lab still hovering uncomfortably at the forefront of his mind, Steve opened his mouth to ask about it, but Bucky looked so worn down that he forced himself to let it go. There would be time to talk later, he reasoned.

“Guess not,” Steve said, trying and not quite succeeding at echoing Bucky’s grin. “But god, Buck, you scared me so bad.”

“Sorry,” Bucky said, looking genuinely remorseful. His eyelids seemed heavy, continually slipping closed, but he was clearly still fighting to keep them open and focused on Steve to convey the sentiment.

“No, don’t - don’t be,” Steve said, his eyes burning with unshed tears. He must have cried more today than he had in the past year - though for good reason, he thought defensively. “You don’t gotta stay awake for me anymore, either. You’re safe now. It’s ok to rest. Know you must be exhausted.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, sounding half asleep already. “But can you stay?”

Maybe it was the medication talking, lowering Bucky’s inhibitions, but Steve’s heart still soared at the sweet, simple request. He ran his hand through Bucky’s limp bangs, a softer, less desperate reflection of the way he’d tried to comfort Bucky back in the woods. _I love you,_ he thought. _I really, really do._

“Of course, Buck,” he said, listening with relief as Bucky’s breathing evened out in sleep. “Always. I promise.”

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me on [Tumblr!](https://winteratdusk.tumblr.com)
> 
> title is from "Blood Bank" by Bon Iver :)


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